


The Side Effects

by Anonymous



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Love Confessions, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sex Pollen, Sibling Incest, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-03 20:45:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15826608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: PSA: Please do proper research on all local flora before ingesting strange flowers. Any and all unforeseen side effects are the sole responsibility of the consumer.





	The Side Effects

Ford had taken to stowing his journals in a lockbox. It was to prevent water damage, obviously, and it was not even a _new_ occurrence that he’d begun to do so. Stan still made pointed comments.  
  
“You realize if I wanted in there I’d have that lock picked in five seconds flat, right?”  
  
Not with the added safety measures Ford had given it, he wouldn’t. But Ford let him believe that, humming in vague assent as he closed the box’s jaw.  
  
“It’s not a testament to a lack of faith in you and just a precaution.” Ford smiled at him goodnaturedly. “You know you’re welcome to read my notes; in fact, I’d be happy to pick your brain about the possibility of sentience in that mold--”  
  
Stan flapped a hand at him and groaned, as Ford was hoping he would. “I’m not interested in your plants and nerd papers, Ford. Forget I said anything, yeesh.” He put on a show of stepping out of their shared bedroom on the boat, making his way topside. Ford followed him up.  
  
Together, they looked at the spit of land as it drew ever closer. Stan asked, “So what are we trying to find here, again?”  
  
“I don't know for certain. Something weird seems likely,” Ford told him.  
  
“Business as usual, then.” Stan snickered and jostled Ford's arm. Ford's heartbeat picked up a step. “You ready?”  
  
Ford turned to grin at him, happy at Stan's enthusiasm. “Yes. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

* * *

Gravity Falls was hardly the only place in which strange things cropped up where they shouldn’t. There had been stranger growths - the (possibly malevolent) spotted mold on the side of the mast that miraculously vanished whenever Ford came near to try to take a sample; or the (probably benevolent) barnacles on the hull. Or the feeling in Ford’s chest whenever Stan’s eyes lit up with conspiratorial glee and excitement, nudging his shoulder and egging him on, cunning and brave and happy. A feeling that bloomed, watered with their shared adventures and quiet nights; roots tangled in his heartstrings - like a weed. Like a parasite.  
  
Like a small, unassuming flower on the shore of a lagoon.  
  
The petals of the flower were a quiet, pastel blue. A pretty little thing easily missed among the loudness of the other foliage, and Stan had no great interest in giving it more than a passing glance; more boisterous flora held his attention. For this, Ford was grateful. So when Stan had his back turned to quip about the showmanship of what was surely a carnivorous tulip, he didn’t notice Ford pluck one from the stem and secret it away in his notebook, pressed between the pages.  
  
“Get a load of this, Ford, I think it likes me!”  
  
Ford turned around to see Stan cackling at the tulip’s grip on the toe of his boot, tiny teeth embedded in the tough leather. He shook his leg like he was taunting a puppy with a toy.  
  
“It’s going to try to eat you,” Ford deadpanned.  
  
Stan laughed, loudly at first, but then sputtered into a far less confident cough. “Haha, good one! I know I’m quite the catch and all, but it’s gonna take more than this runt to get a bite of me. Even if, uh, even if it’s got - got quite the grip there. Haha.” He shook his leg much more violently, but the flower just dug deeper. “Ford, little help?”  
  
Ford crossed his arms. “No, no, I’d hate to break up this budding friendship.”  
  
“Okay, wiseguy, how about - ALRIGHT, ENOUGH OF THAT.” Stan kicked the bulb with about as much finesse as would be expected from a boxer who consistently neglected leg day. The flower held fast despite the thrashing, but the treatment caused it to uproot; red, pulsating roots writhed above the soil like exposed nerves and slithered up Stan’s ankles. Stan started to scream.  
  
Ford watched for a moment, with no small amount of amusement, as Stan colorfully cursed out the plant and his unhelpful brother both. And when he fell flat on his ass, Ford gave in and set his journal aside, safely out of reach, and rolled up his sleeves.  
  
Strange growths, indeed.

* * *

 _Potential uses:_ _medicinal properties yet undefined, though could act as a pain reliever due to the stimulation of endorphins; however, unlike opioids--  
  
_ “I think I’d seen ‘em before,” Stan said. Ford hummed in confusion, not looking up from his journal, so Stan elaborated, “Those tiny blue weeds. I’d seen them - or, I don’t know - something like them back in Gravity Falls.”  
  
Ford started, knocking into Stan's boot (the one not shredded) where it was resting on the seat beside him, surprised at his observation. “Yes, I’d noticed that too. I believe them to be of the same family.” He nonchalantly set his pen down on the table and took care to close the journal. He took far less care knocking Stan’s foot back onto the floor where it belonged.  
  
Stan frowned and took another bite of his salad. “That make them interesting?”  
  
“Yes. There’s minute differences between them; primarily, the ones in Gravity Falls have finer stalks, but that might be due to their location. The weather in Gravity Falls is quite fair, whereas out here it would need to be able to withstand the ocean elements.”  
  
Stan chewed slowly. “Uh huh. And what makes them so special?”  
  
“I never said there was anything about them to make them special.”  
  
“Well, you’d hardly be writing about them if they weren’t weird, right?”  
  
“I’m not writing about them.”  
  
“I saw the drawing of them in the corner, genius.”  
  
“Ah. Well, I meant, I’m not specifically logging that flower but the island’s flora as a whole. Do you have any observations you’d like to add about your new friend?” The jab landed and Ford had to bite back the smile at Stan’s screwed up face.  
  
“It’s chewy,” he said, and stabbed his fork into his dish. A few stay flower petals fluttered from the bowl while he pointedly looked Ford in the eye. Ford remained unfazed by Stan’s attempt to keep face and instead flipped his journal back open to continue cataloguing his thoughts. And perhaps hiding a grin behind the pages.  
  
_\--unlike opioids, the flower cannot be used as a sedative since the reaction caused should be similar to that of an adrenaline rush. The result should therefore induce a rush of energy not unlike a high, but not to as impair cognitive functions. This is perhaps in part that they are metabolized differently in humans, for I once had a_ ~~ _gnome_~~ _subject ingest one and soon after become deliriously euphoric and propose marriage to the coffee maker.  
  
_ Ford flicked his gaze up, just long enough to catch a glimpse of Stan as he yawned and stretched, his strong arms bent behind his head and chest puffed out. “Alright, I’m headed to bed. You gonna stay up much longer?”  
  
Ford said, “No, I’ll be joining you shortly.” Stan heaved himself up from his seat, but patted Ford’s shoulder affectionately as he passed. Ford resisted the desire to watch him go, and listened closely for the sounds of him settling. Only once he heard the rustle of bedsheets did he return to his journal and pen to paper.  
  
_While I sympathize with that affinity for the substance, it’s not the euphoria I’m seeking to replicate. Just the temporary release of inhibitions while retaining my faculties. I don’t need to propose marriage, after all.  
  
_ He paused. The soft sounds of Stan’s breathing and the waves that rocked them beckoned him. Lastly, he added:  
  
_The offer of embarking on our greatest adventure has already been accepted.  
  
_ He slipped into bed, secure in knowing that the journal was safe inside the box beneath the mattress. Tomorrow, he would have his results.

* * *

 

After a liquid breakfast of strong, bitter coffee for Stan and an “improvised tea blend” for Ford, both headed up on deck for Stan to set up his fishing gear while Ford made his daily attempt to get a mold sample from the mast before it vanished. He chatted idly with Stan as he climbed the ladder; he had the sneaking suspicion that him acting distracted caused the mold to be lured into a momentary false sense of security.  
  
“Don’t fall on your ass up there! I don’t have a line strong enough to fish you out if you fall in!” Stan called up after him.  
  
Ford rolled his eyes. “Oh, you’re one to talk. How’s that bruise from your tumble yesterday?”  
  
“Bah! At least I have some cushion on me. You could cut glass with your flat ass.”  
  
“You’ve got cushion in your _gut_ , but a fat ass, you have not.”  
  
“Who’s looking?” Stan quipped back.  
  
Ford’s face flushed hot. “You, apparently!”  
  
“Hard not to get an eyeful if you keep posing like that, Sixer!” Stan snickered as Ford levered himself up onto the roof. “No need to show off for my sake.”  
  
Stan was an insufferable flirt at the best of times, but today’s heckling rankled Ford more than usual. Despite the cool ocean air, he felt too warm and pulled at the collar of his sweater. Perhaps it was just residual nerves. He knew better than to take Stan’s taunts as anything other than attempts to embarrass him. At least Stan seemed to be in high spirits. Ford could only hope that would remain the case as the day progressed.  
  
Ford walked around the mast with a critical eye. His little pet theory about the possibility of sentience either held no merit and there was another trigger that caused the mold to mask itself, or he’d he’d been too slow in his attempt to catch it. It should reappear in the next few hours, if past behavior could predict. But in the meantime, it left Ford with no sample, and no reason to keep stalling.  
  
And yet.  
  
Something didn’t feel right. He rolled up his sleeves to cool overheated skin, but it brought no relief. It was like a discomforting itch below the surface. Was this the effects of the plant? This wasn’t a high, or even the buzz of inebriation. More of a constriction of the senses, focusing internally, from his abdomen. Stemming from...  
  
Oh no.  
  
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, take it easy!” Stan shouted, nearly losing his pole overboard in his surprise as Ford swung down the ladder and attempted to barrel past. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”  
  
He reached out like he was going to try to steady Ford on his feet, and on panicked instinct Ford slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me,” he seethed. Stan’s raised hand stopped midair.  
  
“I didn’t mean anything by it, Ford,” he said, voice small.  
  
Whatever he was talking about Ford couldn’t take time to contemplate. His hands shook, and the longer he stood here, the more undeniable his situation became.  
  
“Irrelevant, but we can discuss this later. Excuse me.” He bullied his way past Stan, ignoring the confused questions that followed him, and made his escape down below.  
  
Stan thankfully did not follow.

* * *

 

The formula was wrong. Or the flower was wrong. Or both - it didn’t _matter_ because _this was not supposed to happen.  
  
_ Stan was still up on deck fishing for dinner, and Ford was down below hiding in the water closet, trying not to panic. He could control this, if he just breathed and focused on the situation at hand - no, bad choice of words - the situation as it was, then he could overcome - _damnit!  
  
_ He carded his hand through his hair to distract himself, but nothing could outweigh the urgency he felt. He _needed_ , and he needed _now_. Nothing else to be done about it. Ford hissed as he lowered his fly and wriggled his slacks down his hips. His cock stood proudly at attention, to Ford’s utter discontent. He wrapped his hand around it and softly squeezed.  
  
The rush of pleasure nearly had him on his knees. He yanked his hand away in time to catch himself on the side of the sink, knees knocking together as they tried to buckle. The arousal was temporarily blinding, but all he could think was - _god, yes, more_.  
  
Ford panted shallowly and replaced his grip on his cock. Again he was struck with the intensity of pleasure, but he braced himself with his other hand on the far wall. Now that he knew what to expect, it was slightly more manageable. He just had to get it out of his system. Focus.  
  
Fist tight, he stroked himself from root to tip, trying desperately to keep his voice down. Just this friction alone felt better than past orgasms had, and it just kept building. His legs shook, and he pulled himself faster, not even applying any sort of technique. When he felt he was on the precipice, he buried his face in his arm to muffle his cry, and raced over the edge.  
  
Coming felt overwhelming and near painful - and not _enough_. Though he hadn’t finished, he kept up the brutal pace with his hand, thrusting his hips and trying to reach that satisfaction he craved. The painful pleasure continued to sear through him. Had he really climaxed? His hand was slick with ejaculate, but he was still hard; he still needed. _Fuck_.  
  
Ford hung his head and narrowed his eyes. Maybe a change of tactic. Tracing his fingers over the length caused him to shiver and bite his lip, but he continued further down until he tentatively cradled his balls in his palm. He rolled them gently and gasped, flushing hot at the wantoness of his own voice. Though it risked his stability, he leaned back against the sink so he could use his other hand to jerk himself with fast, efficient strokes.  
  
The tide rose again, molten and sharp, and crested. Ford’s back arched and toes curled in his boots. This had to be an orgasm, but through the wave of sensation, it did not douse the flames and instead left flaring embers in its wake. Ford growled in pure frustration.  
  
How was this possible? How was he _still hard?  
  
_ A knock rapped on the door and Ford froze in place. “Hey, you okay in there?”  
  
“Yes, I'm fine, Stanley,” Ford bit out, straining with the effort of keeping his voice even.  
  
“You sure? Was it the fish from last night? Because that's all that's been biting the past few hours and--”  
  
“It's not the fish and I'm not sick. I just need some _space_ , thank you!” Ford snapped. He needed to play it cool, but every alarm bell in his head was ringing to know that he and Stan were only a flimsy door apart while he had his goddamn dick in his hand. What would Stan do if he knew? Ford could hardly face him in this condition. And so he could hardly tell Stan what he'd been hoping to, in the first place.  
  
To be frank, Ford felt a bit like crying. Of all the possible side effects, why did it have to be _this.  
  
_ Stan was silent beyond the door. Then quietly, “Fine. Guess I'll leave you to it.” He sounded off. Hurt. But his heavy footfalls carried off, and Ford was left alone. He slid to the floor and closed his eyes. He'd explain himself to Stan afterwards. He'd just have to wait this out.  
  
For a while he kept himself barricaded away in the small room. Further attempts at relief proved unsuccessful, but finally, the fire dimmed on its own. The need still simmered under his skin, but he was able to leave his self-imposed prison without risk. He desperately hoped that, whatever unintentional side effects that plant had caused, it was over now.  
  
It wasn’t.

* * *

 

Ford glared at the horizon with as much heat as he could muster, hoping perhaps to expel some of the flames in his belly. Waves spit at the side of the boat and his bone-tight grip around the banister. It didn't help.  
  
“You thinking ‘bout jumping overboard?” wisecracked Stan, helping even less.  
  
“The thought had occurred to me,” Ford droned in return.  
  
Stan leveled him with a hard look. It made the flames eke up his throat to his cheeks. “You wanna talk about it?”  
  
“Not in the slightest.” Which was the wrong thing to say.  
  
“Alright, what gives?” Stan demanded. “Things have been good, haven’t they? We found your weird shit - anomalies, whatever - isn’t that what you wanted?”  
  
“That’s not what this is--”  
  
“You’re not getting sick of me already, are you?”  
  
Ford stopped short, and this time it was his turn to look at Stan: his guarded eyes and wringing hands. Something had to break here. He would be damned if it was Stan.  
  
Ford hung his head and willed his voice to remain steady. “Of course not. That’s not it at all. I’m just - I’m just embarrassed.”  
  
“Embarrassed.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“About _what?_ ”  
  
Ford rubbed at the corner of his mouth. “You remember the blue flowers?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I tried to use them,” he took a breath, “to test a hypothesis. On myself. The results were not what I expected.”  
  
“It made you act like even more of a jackass than usual?”  
  
“ _No_ , for the love of - I might _havemadeanaphrodisiac_ ,” he said in a rush.  
  
Silence. Then, “No shit?” Stan did not glance down, _he absolutely did not--_ “What were you hoping for in the first place?” He sounded a tinge hysterical.  
  
“Just - something different! Something to fortify my nerves.”  
  
“There’s a bottle of Jack under the bench seat, in that case.”  
  
“I didn’t want _liquid courage_ to talk to my _brother_.” Though he’d thought about that, too.  
  
“Because a sketchy plant potion is _such a better option_.”  
  
“I thought I knew what the effects were going to be!”  
  
“Well, you thought wrong!”  
  
“Obviously! Thank you for your input, Stanley!” Ford balked in the wake of Stan’s peals of nervous laughter. “If your curiosity has been sated, now, can you leave me to my misery?”  
  
“No way in hell! What,” Stan wheezed, “got you so worked up that you thought it would be a good idea to drug yourself before you could say it?”  
  
Ford turned his head back to the waves below and away from Stan’s infectious smile. The warmth in his chest, he knew, had nothing to do with the plant. “It doesn’t matter now.”  
  
“Oh bullshit, look, whatever it is can’t be worse than what you actually just did to yourself.” Ford took a moment to again debate the merits of jumping.  
  
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”  
  
Stan’s laughter trailed off, leaving space for Ford. But he couldn’t, not now. If anything he’d made this whole situation much more complicated.  
  
“Ford. Everyone’s got secrets. I’m not asking you to tell me them - but you obviously wanted to say this one. And if it’s not that you’re gonna call it quits on us, then we’ll work out the rest, yeah?”  
  
“You’re not going to like it.”  
  
“No, what I _don’t_ like is you trying to bite off my head all day because you’re too _frustrated_ to just talk to me.”  
  
Ford groaned. “This is so stupid.”  
  
“Says the idiot, himself. Out with it.”  
  
And despite the allure of the ocean below, Ford took a breath, and said, “I… I have a confession to make.” The rocking of the boat had nothing on the way his stomach was roiling. “I have feelings for you, Stanley.”  
  
Stan grinned. “Not homicidal feelings, I hope.” Ford didn’t smile. Stan’s soon dropped. “...that wasn’t what you meant.”  
  
“No. It wasn’t.” And ah, if that didn’t do the trick of turning his insides to ice. His hands shook. He waited.  
  
“But what you really mean is--”  
  
“Whatever convolution of logic you’re about to postulate, save it. You’re not that dense.”  
  
“Hey, you don’t know that, I’ve crushed rocks with this noggin.”  
  
“Stan, please.”  
  
“This is the real side effect of your potion, right? It’s messing with your head.”  
  
“No, and that’s precisely why I didn’t want to tell you now that I realized what it was doing to me. I took it _because_ I felt this way, not the other way around.” He couldn’t make himself look up to Stan’s face - could only see his coat flutter out of the corner of his eye. Barely a few feet of space between them, but the divide yawned. “I’m sorry.”  
  
A beat. “Don’t be.”  
  
Now there was nothing that would have stopped him from looking Stan in the eyes. Stan, anxious hands in his pockets but wearing an easy, kind smile. Ford gaped at him like a stunned fish.  
  
“Why? I don’t think you understand, I--”  
  
“I’m in love with you,” Stan said, simple as anything.  
  
“Yes, that’s what I - oh. _Oh_.” Ford pried his hands off the rail, though he feared his legs might buckle beneath him, so he could turn to look at Stan fully. When Stan smiled wider at his expression, he didn’t fight the urge to return it. “That’s not what I expected. I mean, I hoped - but,” he couldn’t help himself to ask, “really?”  
  
“Took you long enough, brainiac. I thought you knew. I thought that’s why…” He laughed, and ducked his head to run his own shaking hand through his gray hair. “I thought you getting wise to me was what had you in such a snit.”  
  
Before he could return his hand to his pocket, Ford gave into impulse and grabbed it. They locked their fingers together, and, though they could each feel the other quake, held tight. Ford’s heart felt like it was floating, and he swayed closer without thought. Stan stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Stan?” Ford moved to pull away, but Stan continued to hold his hand tight.  
  
“I’m in love with you, Ford. But I can’t. I can’t do anything about that when I’m not sure if you’ve got your head on straight.”  
  
Ford’s buoyant heart sunk in his chest. “I am fully cognizant of my actions. The flower’s side effects were merely physiological.”  
  
“Yeah, and people do dumb shit when they’re turned on all the time. I’m not gonna risk that with you, okay?” Stan sighed, but, as underwhelming as this response was, Ford couldn’t help but be won over. This was...important. They needed to do this right.  
  
“Since when are you this mature?” Ford asked.  
  
“This isn’t maturity, this is a hundred percent self-preservation,” Stan laughed. “I wouldn’t be able to stand it if you regretted this.”  
  
“I’m not going to,” Ford vowed.  
  
Stan swallowed, and Ford watched his throat work. “You’ll have better luck convincing me of that when you look less like you’d eat me for dinner. I’ve had enough of being treated like a snack the past couple days, thanks.” Ford chuckled and squeezed his hand.  
  
“Alright. Have it your way.”  
  
“Thanks.” Stan cleared his throat. “Well, while you were off having your meltdown, I was actually pulling my weight around here. Now how about we get some real dinner, huh?”  
  
“Fish?”  
  
“Yeah. No more eating weird plants.”

* * *

 

The waves of arousal were already coming fewer and farther between. By the time it hit Ford that night, he was alone reading at the table. The heat boiled in his gut, heady and intense. Ford clenched his hand into a fist against the tabletop and tried to focus on the words on the page, but he couldn't distract himself from the tightness of his pants and how good every minute shift in his seat felt. As wonderful as it was torturous.  
  
He breathed in and exhaled slowly. Closed his eyes. Finger by finger unclenched his fist.  
  
He needed to touch himself so badly. He ached with it, unable to focus on anything else but the desire to indulge and chase his pleasure. It wouldn't take much. A few strokes - he was so close already - a warm puff of breath would push him over. Ford panted and shifted lower in his seat, spreading his knees wide apart. To relieve some of the pressure, and perhaps, to welcome a nudging fantasy between them.  
  
Of Stan, on his knees. Hot breath teasing the head of his cock while he held it in his tight fist. Ford bit his lip to keep from crying out as Stan took him between his own. Just the tip, to tease with the flash of his silver tongue over the crown. This Stan moaned around him, and Ford trembled with the sound. “ _Please,_ ” he begged.  
  
Stan wrapped his strong arms around his waist and pulled him in closer, deeper, mouth careful and merciless around him. Stan’s tongue laved and danced while he sucked Ford off. Ford threw his head back and clenched his hands into the fabric of his pants. He wanted to fist them into Stan’s hair, to tether himself to this moment and never let go, never let it end, just let the pleasure and intimacy build and build between them. Stan moaned quietly when Ford’s thighs trembled and flexed around his ears, trying desperately to keep from thrusting. But the sound was too much, he was going to, he was -  
  
Ford rocked his hips - once, twice - and felt the rise of euphoria; consciously, he willed himself to settle and still. His cock throbbed with the delightful torment.  
  
“Holy shit.” Ford almost didn’t hear the soft swear over his own heavy breathing, but when he opened his eyes there was a very familiar silhouette sitting upright in their bed.  
  
He gulped, and tried his best to fold in on himself. “A-apologies, I didn’t mean to wake you.”  
  
“Like hell I’d be able to sleep through _that_. Good grief, Ford, why don’t you just - you know. Take care of it?”  
  
“I’ve _tried_ that,” Ford groused, “and it hasn’t gotten better.”  
  
Stan shifted forward and his face touched against the light. Ford could make out the glint of the glasses Stan had neglected to take off. Or had he put them on before Ford noticed? In which case, how long had he been staring? Ford whimpered, eyes fluttering closed, and tried not to think more on that line of reasoning. He could hear Stan’s heavy breaths echoing his own.  
  
Stan ran his hand over his face. “You could at least enjoy it a bit instead of whatever the hell this is!”  
  
Ford leveled him with a look, and perhaps it was a sadistic desire to see Stan’s expression, but knowing Stan was watching his every move, he slipped his hand off the table and briefly palmed himself through his slacks. He sighed heavily when he removed his hand, then replied, “Who’s to say I’m not?”  
  
Ford had never seen Stan look so flustered - mouth agape and face aflame. “Shit!”  
  
Ford cackled wildly at his brother’s shrill voice. “Sorry, sorry! Just,” he gasped between laughs, “I’m making do the best I can in this ridiculous situation!” Though his eyes were watering, Ford could still clearly make out that Stan, for all his bluster, was still avidly watching him. And, if Ford wasn’t mistaken, with his own interest becoming quite apparent. “But just because I can’t take care of myself that way, doesn’t mean I would ask you to do the same.”  
  
Stan was frozen for a moment - so long that Ford began to panic that he’d pushed too much - and then Stan’s hand lifted; but, before he reached the front of his own pants, he paused, and dropped it back to the bed.  
  
“If you still want to be with me when this shit wears off, I’ll make sure you don’t leave this bed for a week.” He shook his head. “But not til then.”  
  
Ford sobered and sat up properly in his seat, drawing his knees together. Right, he was better than this, of course. “I will. Still want to, that is.”  
  
“Right.” Stan smiled tiredly at him, which Ford did his best to mirror. “You think sleeping it off will help?”  
  
“...it certainly can’t hurt. But, um, I’ll wait until I’ve calmed down before retiring for the night. A-are you sure that's alright?”  
  
“Yeah, you do that. It'll be fine. And I’ll just, well, uh--” Stan cleared his throat, and Ford tried and failed not to snort as Stan oh-so gracefully pulled the plastic divider between the bedroom and the living area closed. Though it did little to stifle the soft noises that soon followed.  
  
Ford bit the knuckle of his finger and tried again to focus on the words on the page. It took him far longer than he would ever admit aloud.

* * *

It was the smell of cooking food that woke him. And it was the darkness beyond the porthole that told Ford that, as he suspected, Stan had been unable to sleep. Quietly, he padded his way to the kitchen where Stan stood and wearily eyed him from his place at the stove.  
  
“Did you manage to get any rest?” asked Ford sheepishly.  
  
“Moaning. In my ear. And if that wasn't bad enough ya got _handsy._ ” Ford’s face simmered with rising heat. Partially due to embarrassment, but definitely because he liked that thought, very much. He couldn't tell if the flower was still affecting him or if simply the idea was firing him up.  
  
“I did try to warn you,” he said, though he still felt guilty. “Apologies. I hope I wasn't…?”  
  
“It's only five in the morning,” Stan sighed. “I didn't stick around for it to go on for long.” He gave Ford a deliberate glance down, and added, to Ford’s renewed mortification, “Not even long enough for you to get off in your sleep and end this messed up game of yours.”  
  
“It's not a game,” Ford insisted, but quickly sat down at the table to cover what was clearly proof that the flower was indeed still at work.  
  
“Right.” He flicked off the stove. “What was that again last night about enjoying yourself?”  
  
“...not an _intentional_ one.” Ford thought that might get a laugh out of Stan, or at least a smile, but his twin’s face was sombre. Stan pulled out some plates and dished out portions of the scramble he was cooking, passed one to Ford, and then just stared at his own in silence. “Are you alright?” Ford asked.  
  
“Peachy,” Stan intoned. He sat down at the table across from Ford and poked at his food.  
  
Ford swallowed past the lump in this throat. “I apologize if I’ve...made you uncomfortable, with all of this. It wasn’t my intention to be so forward.”  
  
“It’s not that, Ford. At all, really. It’s just…” Stan sighed. “I know you meant to do this, but are you sure that you even wanted to act on it? It’s one thing to want to get it off your chest, I get that, but we don’t have to go any further than that. I was happy the way we were, too.”  
  
Ford already knew his answer to this, but still he gave the idea some thought. Of course he’d been happy enough as they were. But to know that the feelings were requited, and then to not act on them? That seemed foolish. And frustrating, for the both of them. At this point in their lives, what did they honestly have to fear from choosing their own happiness?  
  
“I’m absolutely certain,” Ford said. “While I understand your hesitance, I can say with clear mind that my decision won’t change. And when I am absolutely certain that the solution has worn off, I fully intend on kissing you to prove it.” At this, Stan did laugh and ducked his red face, but his fingers tapped in staccato against the side of his mug.  
  
“...you think it’ll be out of your system today?”  
  
Ford reached across the table and stilled Stan’s hand. “By evening at the latest, by my estimate.”  
  
Stan smiled, and they let the warmth seep into them for a moment longer. “Looking forward to it.”

* * *

 

By early afternoon, Ford was almost entirely certain the side effects were gone. The morning's resurgence had been short lived, and only once after did he feel any flickers of spontaneous lust, but, as quickly as they came, they were snuffed out.  
  
Still, he was patient.  
  
He gave Stan his space to go about his routine, cleaning up around the boat and then fishing while Ford inspected the barnacle colony on the hull and took notes. It was peaceful, and, well, boring. But occupied enough time for him to really think about the possibilities of this evening, and how he could hardly wait. Hopefully Stan still shared his enthusiasm.  
  
Later, when he heard the cabin door swing open and shut, he gave in to the temptation.  
  
“Stanley?” Ford called as he quickly descended the steps.  
  
“Yeah?” Stan replied from where he was packing up his gear.  
  
“Can we talk?”  
  
Stan all but threw his pole into the closet, then became very interested in working out a knot in the line. “Oh, you want to do this right now. Uh, maybe we could give it a couple more hours, you know, to really think it over and make sure you’re, uh, good and stuff,” Stan said, running his mouth. “Wouldn’t want to make any relationship-ending decisions before we know for sure--”  
  
“I am entirely certain that I’m free of the flower’s influence,” Ford said. He put his hand on Stan’s shoulder to try to get him to look in his direction.  
  
Stan grimaced and grit his teeth. He gave up his act with the line, and slowly turned around. “Alright, yeah. Okay.” He took a solidifying breath like he was bracing for a punch. “Lay it on me.”  
  
Well, with an invitation like that.  
  
Ford leaned forward, bypassing Stan’s flinch, and made good on his promise. He kissed Stan with a firmness that bore no hesitance, but kept his hands to himself lest Stan pull away. At this point, it seemed unlikely. Ford prayed he wouldn’t.  
  
But Stan was still beneath his lips for so long that it made him doubt. He drew back, heart trying to crawl up this throat. Stan was looking at him with wide glassy eyes.  
  
Stan’s voice cracked. “You actually meant it.”  
  
Ford blinked. “I told you as much.”  
  
“But you actually meant that you wanted to. With me. To be with me. That’s--” He shook his head, and in a flurry of movement Ford was shoved against the bulkhead with Stan trying to mold their mouths together, but failing spectacularly due to his impeding giddy laughter. Their glasses clinked together painfully, and any attempt Ford made to correct their alignment was thwarted. Eventually, we wasn’t able to withhold his own laughter, either, and gave up on the kiss entirely to just hold tight.  
  
“Did you honestly expect me to turn you away after all that?” Ford hiccuped into the side of Stan’s neck.  
  
“I dunno, I mean, kind of? You have to admit this is weird even for us,” Stan pointed out. “At least you had your whole thing going on to blame. I didn’t have that excuse.”  
  
Ford shook his head. “You’re an idiot.”  
  
“You’re one to talk,” Stan said, poking him in the side. “At least I didn’t use myself as a lab rat."  
  
Ford squirmed. “I got the results I wanted, in the end, didn’t I?”  
  
Stan leaned back to smile at him. He probably meant to look teasing, but was far too delighted to pull it off. “Guess you’d call this one a success. But, uh…” He licked his lips. “You might need a hand to help work out some of those details with.”  
  
Ford beamed back at him. “Is that an offer?”  
  
He let Stan lead him backwards to their bed.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a sex pollen fic that didn't actually result in smut whoops. (Depending on interest though I do kind of have ideas for it, so let me know!)
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
